The Procrastination Nation
by Theoldaccountidontuse
Summary: Samuel Vimes is plunged into a deep coma, and an exchange student at the Unseen University is blamed. Can he solve the mystery sickness before the most populous, dramatic, and smelliest country in the world declares war on his home?
1. On Nobbs, dozing, and policemen

His Grace Commander Sir Samuel Vimes started his day as always he did, by declaring determined war on the stubble brave enough to attempt an overnight invasion on his face. It had always been one of Willikins' dearest wishes that his master would one day allow him to shave his face for him, but Vimes had seen too much of what his butler could do with a knife to allow that.

He finished shaving, washed, kissed his wife, and then, as it were, started on a trip towards home. Vimes had never considered the mansion where he usually slept and occasionally ate as a home; rather as that place he slept. Home was where the heart is, and Sam Vimes' heart was most definitely incased in the stone walls of the Watchouse.

It was unnaturally cold outside, in the six o'clock twilight of the day. Sam was used to the cold, he had been working with the night watch for most of his life, and had seen winters which would make barbarian invaders close the yurt flap and turn up the heaters. Or whatever it was barbarian invaders did when they were cold.

_And down a dark alleyway, something sniffed, or did as close as it could to sniffing, at the air._

Frost glazed the windows, and the flagstones on the road slipped out from Vimes' feet. It really was freezing out here, and Vimes could have sworn he heard something, so he stopped for a moment and lit one of his foul-smelling cigarettes, the ones he couldn't stand but said 'Police Chief' in larger-than-life letters, and was at least warm. Maybe he should just head back home…

_The something saw its moment. Larger than a house, larger than a country, it bounded down the alleyway. It couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't hear or sense, but something inside it pulled it irresistably toward the man in the smog cloud._

Vimes finished with the lighter and set off without looking forward, always an inadvisable move in the icy cold. He bumped into something soft and yielding, which fell over with a yelp. Vimes stooped to help him.

"Um… sorry, wasn't looking… bloody slippery flagstones… freezing cold…" mumbled Vimes as he helped the man to his feet.

_The thing pounced._

Vimes fell to the ground.

* * *

And now it was eleven o'clock, in the warm watchouse which smelled of coffee and sanitiser and the unfortunate aroma of cell toilets. As in any situation where policemen were involved, chaos and histeria were taking over. Cops ran around hysterically, trying to accomplish their orders, or, failing that, to find someone to receive orders from. A desk had been cleared of its usual clutter to make room for Vimes, who still had not risen since the fall. Constable Igor and an elderly doctor potted around the body, arguing over the cause as doctors always do when they are in the same room as another doctor.

There were only two prisoners in this morning; Corporal Nobby Nobbs, who had been locked up for attempting to rob the comatosed commander, and an unfortunate spiky haired youth, who was feeling very sorry for himself, not least because he was sharing a cell with Nobby, a man whose body odour was considered an illegal torture device in a city ruled by Lord Vetinari. The little man's eyes scanned the youth's hair, his pimple-spotted face, and his unusual clothes, which apparently were designed by someone who ate the wrong kind of mushroom. Nobby's brain arrived at one conclusion.

."You a student, then?" he asked suspiciously.

"Um, yes," replied the youth. "Well, exchange student, really. I'm studying at the Unseen University,"

"What'd you do to Vimes?"

"Um, The man who fell down?" asked the youth. Nobby nodded. "Nothing. I have no idea what happened. One minute he was, uh, helping me up, the next he was on the ground."  
"Uh huh," replied Nobby. "Whatever you say. Hey, just saying, if you _did_ knock him out, you wouldn't be able to give me a few pointers on, say, how you did it? Looks like a nifty trick to have."

"I didn't do it!"

"Right, right, whatever you say." They sat in silence for a while. "I liked Vimes," mused Nobby. "Understood how a man's mind worked." He tapped the side of his greasy helmet with a muted _ting_. How does the man do it? Thought the youth. That helmet was clean when he got it off the wall, I saw him. Now it could be used to fry chips. In the privacy of his own head, the youth considered throwing the water pitcher over him, but realised the water would probably stick. He poured himself a glass of water, and became aware of another presence in front of the cell. A presence which blotted out a lot of the light coming from outside.

"Captain Carrot wants to have a word with both of you," said Sergeant Colon as he fumbled with the keys. "And Nobby, I ain't going to make any accusations, but if I was you I'd give him his pen back. I've never seen him like _this _before."


	2. In the office of the Patrician

Captain Carrot turned out to be almost the size of Fred Colon, although where Carrot had rippling muscle Colon just had ripples. The red-haired captain sat behind Commander Vimes' desk, which was presumably somewhere underneath the pile of paperwork that dated back to the early days of the city. Carrot spun his newly-recovered pen between his fingers and put it back down on the desk.

"Sergeant Colon," he said. "Please escort Corporal Nobbs back downstairs and fine him fivepence for the pen** (1)**."

"Yessir." Colon ripped off a salute and left. Carrot sat in complete silence for almost a minute after the door closed. Somewhere, a clock ticked. _Tick tick tick._

The captain showed no signs of stopping his relentless silence. Finally the youth cracked. The smell of soap was beginning to get overpowering.

"Are you going to-" but Carrot held up a hand to silence him. Then he got up, walked over to the door, and rapped on it firmly. There was a yelp and the sounds of two men attempting to run down the stairs quietly. Then Carrot sat back down, opening a file.

"Mister Neil Bryman, I presume?"

"Yessir."

"I understand you are a student at Unseen University?" asked Carrot.

"Yessir."

"But you originally hale from the Isles of Fog?"

"Yessir."

"Please sign here," said the captain. He pushed the file and an arrest warrant across to Neil. The file was one of those most rare of pieces of documentation; actual paperwork from the university. He recognised it as his slip for an exchange.

It hadn't been easy. Most people had never heard of the idea of swapping students between universities; many didn't even realise that there _were_other universities. But after the Archchancellor had taken a mysterious visit to XXXX he had warmed to the idea, and within a few months Neil was on a ship to Ankh-Morpork. He hadn't been surprised at the state of the place, but it was still tricky to get the hang of life here.

"Um… can I borrow a pen?"

Carrot reached down to where his pen had been. It was gone. He frowned slightly and picked up a speaking tube.  
"Can Corporal Nobbs be sent to Commander Vimes' office please? Thank you." He put the speaker down again and turned back to Neil. "Now, the warrant for your arrest states that you are to spend the next month in the harbourside stocks. However, the Isles embassy here is protesting that you should be sent back home…" Neil looked up hopefully. Short prison sentences and comfortable cells beckoned… "But we've argued them down, and after your month is over you will be returned to the Isles to await court there."

Neil slumped in his chair. "Can I speak with the consul?"

"He will see you when you're on the stocks. Sergeant Klay will escort you there. Good day, Mister Bryman."

* * *

Sergeant Klay turned out to be the largest troll Neil had ever seen; not tall, but wide enough that he was not allowed inside the watchousefor fear of what he would do to the walls. He was also, as Neil discovered after a brief bout of experimentation, very difficult to escape from.

"Look, I don't like havin' to do dis any more than you do," Klay had rumbled, shortly after he threw Neil over one shoulder in exasperation. "But I really can't be havn' with you tryin' to run off like dat. It's bad for what is my repu-tation as Chief Stocksman."

Neil was puzzled. "You don't like locking me in the stocks any more than _I_ like being locked in the stocks?"

"Erm… well come to tink of it I guess I do like it a bit more dan you," admitted the troll as he led Neil up onto the platform. "But I am still fairly remorseful, you have my word." He bent Neil over ninety degrees and fastened his hands and head in the wood. "Hey, you're a wizard, right?" the troll dropped him a huge wink with an audible _crack_. "I'm sure you can nego-tiate some kind of escape mecha-nism with dose nifty spells of yours. Den you can fix up Mistah Vimes."

It was an interesting way the troll had of speaking, thought Neil. Any word longer than three syllables was divided into two shorter words. Any word longer than that didn't exist.  
"I don't –" (the troll fastened and locked the stocks) "really know–" (the troll gave him a cheerful salute and began to climb down the stairs to the street below) "how to do –" (the troll had disappeared) "that kind of spell," Neil finished lamely.

The morning cold had diluted somewhat but it was still chilly outside. Wind whistled through the alleyways and snaked its way into peoples' bodies, racing up clothing and down shirts in ways that _proved _the long debated theory of whether the Gods had a sense of humour. Neil struggled a little to get his back into a more comfortable position. By some freak of architecture the platform had been designed so Neil's rear end was pointed firmly and irrevocably into the wind, chilling places that were not meant to be chilled. The harbourside stocks were true to their name, positioned specifically that the freezing sea-spray would wash over the paved beach and over the unfortunate prisoner's body.

The humiliating aspect of the punishment was not quite at the level he would have expected **(2)**. At one stage, a bit later on in the day, a haggard-looking man Neil recognised vaguely from the university shook his hand and told him he knew _exactly_ how he felt; later again, a man in a golden suit gave him an encouraging smile and a nod, but mostly people just treated him like they would any other piece of architecture, interesting, but not actually worth devoting any time or effort to.

It was about three hours after he was imprisoned that the dwarf arrived. He was dressed in a suit of armour that had been clearly designed for visual impact as opposed to actual practicality; despite the fact that a massive suit of plate armour looks very dramatic and warlike in certain artistic representations, in real life it was simply an unbelievably heavy thing to drag around that your beard got caught in. The miniature man pulled himself up onto the platform alongside Neil, breathing heavily.

"The Patrician will see you now," he said breathlessly.

Neil looked around helplessly. "Um, I'm sure the patrician is a very nice man and all, and under normal circumstances I'd _love _to meet him, but I'm a little tied up right now. Can he call back later?"

The dwarf pulled the largest axe Neil had ever seen from his back. There was a brief flurry of splinters. The dwarf put the largest axe Neil had ever seen back on his back.

"The Patrician will see you _now_," he repeated, and started walking back down the stairs. Neil cracked his back into place again, and followed the clanking dwarf.

* * *

The Patrician's palace turned out to be one of the largest buildings Neil had ever seen, big enough to house an army, as it had been forced to do during several historical wars, or the entire Guild of Pensioners fiftieth annual Hogswatch meet, as it had been forced to do only two weeks ago. Neil was directed up the mighty stairway to the Patrician's Oblong Office by the dwarf, or rather, by the dwarf's crossbow, which poked him in the back as a stern and sharp reminder of what would happen if he tried any of his 'wizardly tricks', as the dwarf called them.

After a few short stops for breaks (the dwarf's armour was really very heavy), they reached the top of the stairs, where they sat on a bench outside the Office. I wonder whether he does this deliberately, thought Neil. A sort of horrible instinctive recall to the days of sitting outside the principal's office.

Finally a clerk opened the mighty wooden doorways into the room. "Misters Bryman and Tablespoon? The Patrician _requests_ your immediate attendance."  
There were three men inside the Office; the massive Archchancellor Ricully of Unseen University was sitting on one end of the table, his arms folded over his chest. Opposite him was an almost indescribably boring looking man holding a file, and sitting alongside _him _was a tall man, dressed in a dull gray, his hands steepled over his face. Neil wondered which one was Lord Vetinari.  
"Thank you, Drumknott," said the tall man with steepled hands. The clerk bowed and left. The tall man turned to the dwarf. "Mister Tablespoon, I've told you on several occasions that wearing your anti-everything armour will not be necessary on a mission of this mundanity."

The dwarf saluted. "Sorry suh! Wouldn't be seen in public without it, suh!"  
"I see. At this particular point and time your expertise is no longer required, Mister Tablespoon. Do not let me detain you."  
The doors swung shut. Neil sat down.

"Mister Bryman, I presume?"  
"Yessir, that's me."  
"I see. And you of course know why you are here?"  
"Um… not exactly, sir."  
"Hmph," said the man, who Neil now presumed to be the Patrician himself. "If you will, Mister Milligan?"  
The boring looking man stood nodded. "Thank you, my lord. Mister Bryman, you have put us in a very difficult position. Mister Vimes has still not awoken from his… sleep. Doctors, wizards, and Igors alike have been unable to determine the cause of it; in fact, he doesn't even seem to be technically asleep. By all means he is dozing, lying on the table with his eyes closed and his brain fully awake. This of course does not alter the fact that we cannot wake him, but does suggest some powerful magic."  
"Damn right," said Ridcully. "We're tossing up whether to lock you in the tanty or just offer you a scholarship and be done with it."  
"Your imput is as always appreciated, Archchancellor," said Vetinari. "But we'll let the consul have his say first, hmm?"  
"Thank you, sir," said Mister Milligan gratefully. He turned back to Neil. "You can see our problem. Rather a large amount of Ankh-Morpork's nobility is crying for war to be declared on the Isles in retaliation **(3)**."  
"Um… they do realise that I'm not remotely high enough level of a wizard to cast a spell of that power, don't they?" Neil asked. "I'm not even first level yet!"  
Ridcully nodded at this. "We know that. The public don't." Neil nodded. He understood this. In the general public, everyone was an expert on everything.  
"So what are we going to do about it?" asked Neil.  
"We?" Lord Vetinari looked surprised. "_We_are going to do exactly as we feel is necessary. And right now that involves sending you back to the stocks. Thank you, Mister Bryman, and good day."

"But–"

"Don't let me detain you, Mister Bryman.

* * *

**(1) **Thus bringing the total money Nobby owed in general fines to the city watch to AM$158,459.32.

**(2) **This was because the people who got their kicks out of seeing other people tied up in uncomfortable positions were either at the Thieves Guild stocks where passer-bys were encouraged to hurl fruit, abuse, and occasionally weaponry at offenders, or on the Street of Negotiable Affection, where enough money could satisfy _anyone'_skicks.

**(3) **'Rather a large amount' can here be interpreted as Lord Rust, who was nevertheless capable of being rather a lot all by himself.


End file.
